


lost in translation

by aiyah



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Business Trip, Clown-to-Clown Communication, Coworkers - Freeform, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, Humor, Language, M/M, Pining, Protective Siblings, Smut, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiyah/pseuds/aiyah
Summary: On his latest business trip for Caldera, Zuko learns aboutsleepless in Seattlein a new light.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 283





	lost in translation

**Author's Note:**

> happy christmas!!! here is my gift for all of you today : >  
> (ty to wheat for the beta)

✦ ✧ ✦

Like any good story, this one starts on a plane—a short distance away from the tarmac of Sea-Tac, when the pilot cheerfully informs everyone to put away their things because _folks, we’re about to descend into the beautiful, sunny city of Seattle_ and _safety first!_. Zuko braces himself against the pull of the seat belt around his waist. The tray tables are stowed, his briefcase is tucked away in a corner—along with the remnants of his sanity.

Zuko’s—Zuko’s not the biggest fan of flying.

It might have something to do with an ill-timed family trip and a sudden bout of stomach flu when he was younger, or simply because he doesn’t enjoy being trapped in a metal cage high above solid ground, but whatever the reason, Zuko is definitely not having the time of his life. Honest, he doesn’t even remember how he got through the massive wave of turbulence in the middle of breakfast service. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was running on three hours of sleep by the time the plane took off from Narita, or maybe because he had gone a bit overboard while waiting for the flight, throwing back shot after shot of the finest sake Delta had to offer at the open bar in their lounge and trying desperately to match Azula’s pace.

(In retrospect, it was definitely Zuko’s poor decision-making skills that led to his massive headache and heightened nerves. His sister _does_ happen to have an unusually high tolerance for all things spirited and spiked.)

“Zuzu?”

“ _What_ ,” Zuko hisses, because his throat is dry but the plane is too shaky and he doesn’t want to risk leaning over and looking for the emergency water bottle he stashed in his luggage.

“Geez, touchy much?” Azula cocks an eyebrow from the seat next to his. She’s reading one of those paperback novels. (You know, the trashy ones with a buff hero and a lascivious heroine on the cover and a ridiculous title like _Wild Cowboy Come Home_ , the ones that all airports sell at the Hudson News retail stores next to the rows of candy and gum.)

(Zuko files that small bit of information into his imaginary folder of sibling blackmail.)

“ _Leave me alone_.”

“No can do, brother dear,” Azula simpers, closing the book and placing it in her lap. “You, my friend, have a meeting _bright and early_ with Shu Jing tomorrow, remember?”

 _Ugh_. “Don’t remind me.”

“It’s not my fault you wanted to try your luck at drinking with me.”

Zuko groans noisily, head falling forward as the headache pounds on.

“Sober up, buttercup,” Azula says, and in the next second, there’s something pressing against Zuko’s forehead, cold and familiar. He looks up with bleary eyes, snorting when he sees _Ukon no Chikara_ on the tiny bottle.

Zuko unscrews the cap and downs the drink in two gulps, the slight spice of turmeric tickling his throat. “I’m not even going to ask how you got this past customs.”

“Good.”

The rest of the flight goes down easy like the smoothest bottle of umeshu, and Zuko’s _just_ sober enough when the plane comes to a stop at the gate. He stands up, wiggling his toes and stretching his arms, wincing when he hears the audible pop of his back as he twists from side to side.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Azula remarks sympathetically, her jacket draped over one arm and her bag slung across her shoulder. She looks just as well-put-together coming off the flight than when they first came on the flight, without a single wrinkle or crease anywhere on her Brunello Cucinelli slacks and blouse. Azula’s also wearing the most ridiculous pair of stilettos that Zuko’s ever seen—tall, sharp black heels that click-clack against the floor when the two of them exit the plane and head into the gate.

“I don’t understand how you can walk in those,” Zuko murmurs while they weave through the throngs of people milling about in the terminal. “Especially after a redeye. Aren’t you tired?”

“A lady never tells.” Azula punctuates her words with a particularly obnoxious clink of her heels. They’ve made it past security now, a crowd of signs dotted with smiles greeting them at the exit. Zuko’s squinting, looking around for their driver.

“A. HUO & Z. HUO,” a sign proclaims, stark black against white in the hands of a dour-looking man in a suit who squints suspiciously at Zuko and Azula when they approach him.

“You A. Huo?” The man glares at Zuko as if he’s already come to the conclusion that Zuko offends him in some way.

“ _I’m_ A. Huo,” Azula sticks a manicured hand out and smirks. The man looks baffled but shakes it anyways, and Zuko swears he can see the veins bulging in the man’s hand. He wonders just how much strength Azula’s putting into the handshake—by the terrified look on the man’s face, it’s probably one of her _don’t-you-dare-look-down-on-me-or-I’ll-literally-rip-your-hand-off_ handshakes.

(Leave it to Azula to assert her dominance in the most passive- aggressive of ways.)

“Ah, it’s very nice to meet you, Miss Huo.” The man withdraws his hand, Zuko watching as he winces just slightly. “My name is Pakku. I was told that I would be your personal driver for your time in this lovely city. Shall we head to the hotel first—”

“Office.” Zuko interrupts.

“—or—excuse me?”

“Office,” Zuko repeats. Of course he’d love to go to the hotel to rest up—maybe take a quick nap and send that hangover back from where it came from—but when there’s work to be done, well, work comes first.

Pakku seems to shrink as he leads them to the car, pulling open the door and watching Azula slink in quietly. Zuko’s next, and as soon as the car starts up, he’s already pulled out his notepad, his tablet, and what little bit of energy he has left.

He’s already five pages deep into the contract by the time the car makes it to the highway.

“Welcome to Seattle,” Pakku says over the thrum of the engine, but Zuko’s far too engrossed in his work to care.

✦ ✧ ✦

To say that Zuko is a workaholic is an understatement.

(A _massive_ understatement.)

Well, everyone at Caldera _is_ a bit of a workaholic—it does come with the territory, after all. Working at Caldera is more time-consuming than Bridgewater, more soul-shattering than McKinsey, more terror-inducing than Goldman Sachs.

There are only two kinds of people who work at Caldera: the masochists (because you have a taste for humiliation) and the demons (because you’ve sold your soul to corporate capitalism).

Zuko happens to fall into a third, more unfortunate category: the family.

(Because blood flows thicker than wine, and after the stunt Lu Ten pulled—well, poor Zuko became heir to a company that he had absolutely zero interest in running. Which pretty much means he works harder than the rest of the division combined, racking up contracts and mergers and a veritable hodgepodge of corporate jargon that looked better in his economics textbooks from university than on actual, corporate-official documents.)

Eight-hundred-and-twenty-two all-nighters, four-hundred-and-fifty corporate whatnots, and three office desks later (Azula smashed the first two out of sheer frustration), Zuko was handed a shiny new name plate with the words “ _ZUKO HUO, HEAD OF ASIA-PACIFIC DIVISION, CALDERA CORP._ ” engraved in serif and a beautiful office overlooking Roppongi for his blood, sweat, and tears.

(Not to mention a stunningly sadistic partner in the form of his own sister. Azula secured herself the top spot in Shanghai for her troubles.)

Said sister is now leaning against the windowsill of their hotel suite, tapping her fingers in frustration against the glass. They’ve been sequestered in the hotel for a few hours now, their driver giving a flimsy excuse about _you can do work in your suite, Mister Huo_ and _well, you see, the office is closed on Tuesday afternoons_ , as if it’s completely understandable for a company to be _closed_ on a _Tuesday afternoon_ , of all things.

(Well, considering the fact that Shu Jing is apparently being run by a guy named Wang Fire—well, Zuko’s not about to get his hopes up. He’s done a bit of light reading, and it seems like this Wang Fire fellow is just as kooky as he sounds, with a dozen patents to his name and twice as many accolades to boot. Hell, he’s even been honored on Forbes 30 Under 30, something that Zuko’s definitely impressed by.)

“I want to go to Pike’s Place,” Azula whines, sounding more like a preschooler and less like the twenty-seven-year-old corporate powerhouse she is. “When can we go?”

(Which roughly translates into: “Can you hurry up with your damn job so I can go out and have fun?”)

“As soon as I finish up my work.”

“You mean, never.”

“Azula, please.”

“But I wanted to hang out with you.”

“Not on a business trip. Didn’t you have something else you needed to do?”

“Yeah, but I finished it already. Mo Ce practically folded in on itself when I showed up to negotiations,” Azula pouts. "You should take some time off, pretty please?”

“You could get Pakku to take you, you know,” Zuko mumbles over a stack of papers. He’s in full working mode, tie slung over his shoulder, glasses perched on his nose, a pen twirling idly between his fingers as he does the very thing that no one ever wants to do: read the fine print.

(Because Zuko’s not just a workaholic—no, he’s a perfectionist as well.)

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Pakku? The driver?” Zuko circles a clause and jots some notes in the margin.

“Ugh. I wanna go with _you_.”

“Hey, can you check my schedule for me?” Zuko asks, blazing over Azula’s complaints as he flips the page. “What else do I have—”

“We have dinner with Jeong Jeong at 7:30.” Azula’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “A call with Jet at 10:15 to finalize details about the Kyoshi Project.”

She pauses for dramatic effect. “And your meeting with Shu Jing is tomorrow morning at 9:45.”

“Any other details about who we’re meeting?” Zuko doesn’t have the best memory, and he usually skims over his emails and has Azula do the writing instead. There’s only so much his brain can handle besides what he has to complete in the next forty-eight hours, and remembering names and faces usually isn’t high on the priority list.

“Glad you asked, because I was _just_ about to get to that.” The sarcasm in Azula’s voice is scathing. “Some guy named Sokka Qanik?”

Zuko has no idea who that is.

“Of _course_ you have no idea who he is.” Azula rolls her eyes. “You should stop voicing your thoughts out loud, yeah? You never know who might be listening.”

“Can you not?”

“I _cannot_.” Azula chuckles quietly as she pads towards the bed and sits on the edge, smoothing out her slacks and pickingly idly at a loose thread on her blouse. “Anyways, Sokka Qanik. Twenty-eight years-old, graduated magna cum laude with a degree in computer science from Carnegie Mellon—”

“Hold on.”

“—sold his first startup at age twenty-one—”

“Huh?”

“—younger sister studying at Yale Medical School—”

“You looked into his family?”

“—order at Shake Shack is two Shack Stacks with extra ShackSauce, Bacon Cheese Fries, and a Black & White Shake—”

“How did you get all of this information?”

“—apparently he’s, like, hot or something, but that’s just Ty Lee, I think.” Azula claps her hands together. “You were saying?”

Zuko’s gaping like a fish now, mouth opening and closing, no sound at all. All he wanted was a quick rundown of the other party— not a veritable Wikipedia article about their entire life.

“If you’re wondering where I got all this information—” Azula’s grin stretches wider and wider by the second, “—it was easy.”

“Easy?” Zuko looks dumbfounded, because he’s pretty sure that LinkedIn doesn’t have a feature telling you about someone’s likes and dislikes. (Unless that’s what endorsing is for.) “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is—were you even listening to me?” Azula bonks him on the forehead, soft and swift. “Did you not hear the part where I said I know his sister from _undergrad_ , dummy? Go Cardinals, or whatever.”

She wanders away and into the adjacent room, muttering something about “ _ugly-ass trees_ ” and “ _fucking_ Yale _of all things_ ”, and for the second—no, wait, _third_ —time that day, Zuko wonders what the fuck he’s gotten himself into.

✦ ✧ ✦

They say that the first eight seconds are the most critical for a first impression.

In that case, then Sokka Qanik takes the cake for the worst first impression possible.

(—or the best, depending on if you’re asking Zuko or his brain cells.)

These first eight seconds coincide with the last two seconds before the clock strikes 9:45 in an empty conference room at Shu Jing, and Zuko officially loses the rest of his patience, because work is important but punctuality even more so. Azula’s standing idly by the door, eyes narrowed in impatience. (And if there’s one person more obsessed with time, it’s got to be her.) Zuko knows that one word—just one word—and he can call the entire thing off, hop back on the next plane back to Japan, and forget that this entire trip happened.

He barely registers the thud of cheap-leather-on-carpet before the door swings open and a man stumbles through with a few seconds to spare.

Well—it’s not exactly who Zuko was expecting, if one could even say that—not like he had spent the entire night wondering just who this _Sokka Qanik_ fellow was instead of focusing on the conference call with Jet. (This had, predictably, led to a shouting match that had Azula glaring daggers at Zuko from her vantage point next to the television because _other people might be sleeping at 10:15, Zuzu, so take your flirtations elsewhere_.)

(Before you ask: yes, they’re exes; yes, exes can work together and maintain some semblance of emotional maturity; and _no_ , Zuko has absolutely no plans on getting back with Jet, because the two of them go together just about as well as oil and water.)

The man now sitting in front of Zuko looks more like a coding nerd than the cool, collected Casanova that Azula had painted him out to be. Umber hair flies everywhere as the man pulls it back into a ponytail—and that’s when Zuko sees two tiny slivers of platinum flashing at him from the man’s ear.

“You Zuko Huo?” the man asks.

(And _fuck_ —Zuko ignores the fact that his heart twitches ever-so-slightly at the man’s voice, all smooth and suave and nothing like what he expected from tech bro Tom here.)

“And you must be Sokka Qanik,” Zuko replies, mind still racing as his brain cells struggle to put two and two together to form some semblance of a coherent thought.

“Yeah! Nice to meet you!” Sokka holds out his hand, the sleeve of his flannel pulling back slightly and revealing the smallest strokes of black-and-blue on his arm.

Zuko blinks.

( _He has tattoos?_ )

( _So_ what _if he has tattoos?_ )

“—you good?” Sokka’s waving an arm in front of Zuko’s face, and Zuko jumps slightly.

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Zuko grasps his hand and shakes it firmly— _nope, not peeking at the tattoo again_ —before nodding ever so slightly. “I’m delighted to meet your acquaintance, Mister Qanik.”

“Dude, you can just call me Sokka.” Sokka sits back in his chair and crosses his arms—

( _Oh, he’s… fit_.)

Zuko is definitely _not_ thinking about how toned this man is, how his muscles would look, straining against a nice dress shirt and suit jacket. Or maybe uncovered, flexing as he reaches for Zuko’s—

( _Somebody’s interested_.)

( _Fucking fuck, leave me alone, will you?_ )

“Anyways—” Zuko clears his throat, dispelling any errant thoughts about tattoos or muscles or cornflower-blue eyes from his mind, “—you can call me Zuko. I’m very happy to be working with you on this contract, Sokka.”

“Likewise, _Zuko_ ,” and Sokka’s practically purring, a grin blooming on his face as he flips open the portfolio. “I’ll just jump right into it, okay?”

The next hour passes in a blur, mostly because half of Zuko’s mind is focused on the presentation and the other half—the other half is still stuck playing “ _likewise, Zuko_ ” on a loop in that damn voice like it’s on its own Spotify playlist or something. That damn voice, smoother than caramel and darker than French roast, curling itself inside Zuko’s mind and invading his every thought. That _fucking_ voice, tickling Zuko’s nerves and sending his heartrate through the roof of the high-rise building and up into the stratosphere.

He doesn’t even remember if the meeting ends, if Sokka asked him about when they were going to meet next time, or if this entire experience had just been a hallucination or a fever dream. Zuko somehow manages to carry himself out into the hallway and into Azula’s path, the two of them awkwardly bumping against each other.

“Watch where you’re going, brother dear.” Azula punches Zuko gently in the arm, shocking him out of his thoughts.

“What the fresh fuck was that for?” Zuko whispers in Mandarin as he lapses back into his mother tongue, because the last thing he needs to do is swear in public like some uneducated heathen with the filthy mouth to match.

“Excuse me?” Azula’s Mandarin is soft and polished, nothing like the harsh syllables of English that Zuko’s used to hearing. They’re in the foyer now, waiting for the next elevator to come pick them up.

“You punched me!”

“You weren’t looking where you were going, and as your ever-faithful partner, I had to intervene and make sure you were focused and ready for anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“Call it what you want.” The elevator doors open, Azula clicking her heels as she walks in. “What were you doing, zoning out like that in an important meeting?”

“I didn’t zone out!”

“Zuzu.”

“Fine.” Zuko rubs the back of his neck, hoping that the elevator ride could just go a little faster. “Maybe I did. So what?”

Azula goes silent, and Zuko’s thoughts take a turn for the worst. His sister isn’t known for biting her tongue, and the fact that she’s just standing there, pursing her lips in concentration doesn’t bode well for Zuko at all.

“You think he’s hot, don’t you,” Azula says flatly.

(Where the hell is the cheesy elevator muzak when you need it?)

“No?” Zuko offers meekly.

“I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it.”

The elevator doors open on an excited Azula punching the air, a mortified Zuko contemplating the easiest way to fade from existence, and an all-around feeling of dreadful excitement for what’s to come.

✦ ✧ ✦

Sokka’s the funniest, nicest, and quirkiest person that Zuko has ever met.

He’s also the most infuriating person that Zuko has ever met.

If you asked Zuko to list the ways that Sokka’s annoyed him in the few days they’ve met—well, you’d have a list rivalling the length of the longest CVS receipts, the ones you get when you accidentally type in your ExtraCare card for benefits and end up with a fifty-incher for your troubles.

Besides the fact that Sokka seems to lack an internal timetable or any sense of punctuality, there’s also his irritating habit of showing up to meetings in some ill-fitting sweatshirt, his baffling penchant for eating Bugles with chopsticks, and his inexplicable tendency to collapse into a yoga move in the middle of a conference call.

“My therapist says that I should do stretches when I need to calm down,” Sokka says from his downward dog position, his voice travelling up from somewhere across the table from Zuko’s left foot.

(Zuko, to his credit, does not acknowledge the fact that Sokka has a very nice, very taut ass.)

The next day, Sokka blooms into a lotus pose on one of the chairs. He follows it up by slithering into cobra pose on top of the conference table, much to Zuko’s confusion and Azula’s amusement.

Needless to say, Zuko thinks Sokka’s a fucking pain in the ass.

(Zuko wants Sokka to be _his_ pain in the ass.)

The irony of these statements is not lost upon Zuko, and he chalks it up to his emotions finally catching up to him, blaring _whee whoo whee whoo, attractive man here!_ constantly in his mind. It certainly doesn’t help that Sokka can be stylish when he puts his mind to it, especially when he starts showing up to meetings in button-down shirts and leather Oxfords, winking at Zuko with a smile on his face— _oh my spirits, he_ winked _at me_.

(When Sokka appears for one of their meetings with a haphazardly knotted tie around his neck, it takes every bit of Zuko’s self-control not to reach out and yank that damnable blue fabric—nevermind.)

Sokka’s smart, too—is that how he remembers all those algorithms and theorems?—going toe-to-toe with Zuko in their debates, playing devil’s advocate during conference calls or brainstorming completely new strategies during their negotiations. He’s not condescending or arrogant like the other people Zuko’s used to working with, those who enjoyed grilling Zuko on obscure vocabulary or ethics scenarios and watching him squirm—and, if anything, this makes Sokka even more endearing to him.

Not to mention the fact that Sokka doesn’t seem to mind the verbal barrage of questions and comments from Azula. Agni only knows just how many clients Azula’s managed to scare away over the years, and Zuko had been worried that Sokka would be next on the list. Except Sokka is endowed with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of quips and replies for all of Azula’s snarky commentary. The fact that Sokka is willing to cater to Azula’s whims is basically the cherry on top of the ideal boyfriend sundae.

(Zuko can only dream.)

But Zuko doesn’t have time to think about love or feelings or ooey-gooey thoughts that have him weak at the knees. No—every waking moment is dedicated to seeing his projects and his contracts through, and he’ll be damned if he lets one representative from Shu Jing distract him from his original goals.

(Besides, he’s only here for a few weeks, and he’s sure that he’ll forget all about this experience once he’s on the plane back to Narita with the contract safely brokered in his pocket.)

So Zuko does what Zuko does best, a combination of “ _I will blatantly refuse to talk about him outside of work_ ” and “ _he is nothing more than a colleague at best and an acquaintance at worst_ ”, with a healthy shot of “ _work comes first, I come later_ ” for good measure. He fills his schedule with superfluous meetings and agendas, declines Sokka’s invitations to dinner with the tiniest of stings in his chest, and broadcasts his woes to the only person he trusts in this entire metropolis.

✦ ✧ ✦

“He’s so hot,” Zuko drawls one night, words rolling off his tongue in a drunken stupor. The two of them are sitting at the bar in some fancy restaurant in the middle of town, a row of empty shot glasses perched on the counter in front of them. There’s a half-empty bottle of kaoliang in between them, and Azula winces when her brother reaches out towards the bottle and almost knocks the shot glasses off the counter.

(Azula doesn’t think she gets paid enough to be her brother’s personal relationship counselor.)

“He’s so hot, Az,” Zuko moans, and that’s when Azula knows that her brother is well-and-truly drunk, because Zuko never calls her Az unless he’s out of his mind.

The bartender shoots a sympathetic glance towards Azula before moving in and collecting the empty glasses.

“You should just hook up with him, y’know.” Azula takes another sip of her kaoliang. “Might loosen you up a bit?”

The look Zuko gives her is equal parts horrified and appalled. “I can’t just _sleep_ with a client, Az!”

“I mean, what’s stopping you?” _Besides your stupid code of professionalism_.

“We—we—” Zuko rubs his scar wearily and fishes around for his wallet. “We aren’t gonna talk about this anymore.”

But Azula’s seen the way that Sokka looks at her brother, the quick glances and stolen stares whenever Zuko’s not paying attention or preparing his notes. She remembers how Zuko made an offhand comment about how a good suit can make a man, how Sokka had shown up to the next meeting dressed to impress in a full suit and tie, how Zuko took one look and clammed up almost immediately in shock and awe.

 _They’re idiots_ , Azula tells herself when Sokka continues his inexplicable yoga regimen in the office.

 _They’re just idiots_ , she reminds herself when Zuko crawls into bed at night after a round of drinking, murmuring something about wanting to see Sokka’s tattoos.

 _They’re just ridiculous idiots_ , she repeats to herself throughout the course of several meetings, each more awkward than the last.

The worst part is arguably the fact that both Sokka and her brother—well, Azula doesn’t know Sokka that well—actually seem to work _even_ better under this pretense of tension, even through long stretches of trading pining glances back and forth like some bastardized Wimbledon championship match. Tension crackles in the air, and for the first time in her life, Azula knows that she’s not the one to blame.

Deadlines are met, calls are made, and before Azula knows it, the last week of contract negotiations is just on the horizon—and neither her brother nor Sokka has made a move yet. Azula doesn’t have the patience for watching the two of them dance around each other anymore, like two timid tigers circling around each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. She’s determined to do something about it.

✦ ✧ ✦

“You could just ask him out,” Azula says to Zuko without preamble during lunch one day.

(As annoying as she can be, Azula doesn’t expose her brother on main just quite yet.)

Zuko pokes at the quinoa salad in front of him. He wonders why anyone would bother eating something so—so bland and flavorless.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.” Azula glares at him. “C’mon, Zuzu.”

Zuko moves towards a tomato, rolling it around the bowl before puncturing it with his fork, tomato going everywhere.

“Fine, be that way.” Azula delicately wipes her mouth with the napkin, a ring of crimson staining the white fabric. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

And because Azula has all the grace of an elephant rampaging in a ceramics shop, she starts her assault again during their afternoon meeting in the conference room, Zuko staring intently at ~~Sokka’s hands~~ the blueprints and notes in front of him.

“You think Sokka’s _super_ hot, don’t you?” Azula pipes up, and for a split second, Zuko almost faints because _his sister can’t be doing this to him right now—_

( _Oh, wait. She’s speaking Mandarin_.)

“Shut up!” he shoots back, touching his cheek and wincing at the sudden warmth in his cheeks.

“I thought I heard my name?” Sokka looks up from his papers and over at Azula. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Azula waves her hand and beams cheekily. “Just checking in with Zuko about something. Carry on.”

Zuko squares his shoulders and makes a reminder to have a serious discussion with his sister about the importance of separating personal and professional life.

Another thirty minutes pass by without any incident until Azula clears her throat pointedly.

“Didn’t you say you wanted him to bend you over the table?”

“ _Azula Huo, we are not discussing this right now_.” Zuko can barely keep himself from spitting out the consonants, his harsh tones ricocheting around the room.

Azula raises both hands and backs away, but not before shooting a glare at Zuko for good measure.

Unfortunately, it seems like his sister’s words do have an impact on him, because Zuko can’t help but spend the rest of the meeting with his head in the clouds, wondering—just wondering—if asking Sokka out would really be that bad. The pros (a hot, smart boyfriend) far outweigh the cons (a breach of client-investor professionalism).

And all Zuko can worry about now is not if the contract will go through (success rate: 100%), but if he should even attempt his own personal negotiations with Sokka (success rate: unknown).

✦ ✧ ✦

As it turns out, Zuko doesn’t even have time to even dream about hypothetical success rates, because it all goes down spectacularly fast and chaotic.

On the last day of negotiations, they arrive at the Shu Jing office, only to see everyone up in the buzz. Nothing else is different, save for the fact that the water cooler talk is ten decibels higher than normal and everyone seems to be on edge. Zuko finds himself being escorted down a different hallway and away from the conference room he usually uses for negotiations.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Boss is here,” the woman escorting him says, barely missing a beat in a pair of heels that would rival even the spikiest of Azula’s torture devices.

“Boss?”

Azula’s by Zuko’s side in a flash, fingers flying over two phones as she multitasks. “You should’ve told us that he was coming today.”

“Unfortunately, Mister Fire had a last-minute change of plans, and he would like to take a look at how the negotiations are going,” the woman replies. They turn another corner and there it is, a nondescript door at the end of the corridor.

“Mister Fire would like to see you in his office, sir.” The woman looks at Zuko and gestures towards the door. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

Zuko has the sinking feeling that he’s about to step into something he’s totally and wholly unprepared to face. He’s not quite prepared to meet the CEO of—

( _Oh, shut up_. _You’re the fucking head of the Asia-Pacific division of Caldera, remember? You didn’t do all that work for nothing_.)

And besides, he has Azula by his side—and honestly, Zuko can’t think up of a better person to face this experience with than his own sister.

Unfortunately, Fate seems to have her own plans for Zuko, and when he opens the door, all of his thoughts promptly evaporate from his mind.

Sokka’s sitting there at the desk, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, wearing the sharpest, sleekest suit Zuko’s ever seen with that damnable blue tie knotted neatly around his neck. Gone are the platinum hoops, two small studs winking in their place. Sokka looks so utterly focused, so gorgeous that Zuko’s just about rooted in place, his feet refusing to move forward. There’s a nameplate on the desk, with “ _WANG FIRE, CEO, SHU JING INC._ ” mocking Zuko as he rereads the words over and over again.

“—tell him that I’m thankful for all the help, okay?” Sokka’s talking on the phone, voice melodic and dancing as phrase after phrase of Mandarin—

Mandarin.

_Mandarin?_

_Oh_.

( _Oh, no_.)

 _Sokka speaks Mandarin_ , Zuko thinks to himself, and he just about disintegrates on the spot.

(Azula barely catches him as he goes down, performing a well-placed jab on Zuko’s back that has him squaring his shoulders into proper posture, his legs automatically carrying him forward towards the chair across from Sokka.)

Honest-to-Agni, the only thing on Zuko’s mind is the thought of perishing, because Sokka speaking Mandarin means that Sokka’s definitely overheard that one time Zuko murmured to Azula about wanting Sokka to just bend him over the conference table and have his way with him, which is _definitely_ a breach of client-investor professionalism, no questions asked.

“Guh,” Zuko utters spectacularly to no one in particular. “Guh.”

“And I’ll be outside if you need me,” Azula snorts as she walks away, but not before giving her brother a sympathetic pat on the back as if to say, _good luck, brother dear_.

(You _know_ it’s bad when Azula doesn’t have anything snappy to say in response to something.)

“—talk to you soon, alright?” Sokka hangs up, placing his phone on the desk and smiling up at Zuko. The door clicks shut behind Zuko, and he can feel his heart rate increasing at an exponential pace, thudding nervously against his ribcage.

“So.” Sokka clasps his hands together. “How—”

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” Zuko blurts out, because there’s nothing quite as mortifying as breaking the basic tenets of _don’t-crush-on-your-clients_ in Professionalism 101 and he’s not quite sure if he’ll ever recover from this experience.

A hush falls. Zuko looks pointedly at the floor, debating whether or not he should submit his resignation from Caldera in-person or via snail mail.

“Hey, look at me.”

Zuko keeps his gaze downwards.

“Zuko, look at me.” Sokka says, voice soft. “C’mon.”

 _Snail mail it is_ , Zuko decides for himself, looking up and bracing himself for the worst.

He’s not expecting to see Sokka smiling at him, a sliver of teeth gleaming between his lips. Sokka winks at him, and Zuko blinks in confusion.

“So. Were you lying?” Sokka asks.

Zuko’s heart is lodged in his throat. “Lying about what?”

“Were you lying when you said those things about me?” Sokka cocks his head.

( _Okay. So we’re definitely resigning after this_.)

“No.” Zuko says, shaking his head ever so slightly.

He’s wholly unprepared for Sokka to rise from his chair and slink around the desk, coming to a stop behind him and standing close, so close that the hairs on the back of Zuko’s neck prickle with tension.

“I’m glad nothing was lost in translation,” Sokka says matter-of-factly, spinning Zuko around and kissing him hard on the lips.

Electricity curls in Zuko’s bones as he drowns in the kiss, static-shock blazing a trail through his veins. He’s frightened and shocked and worried about what might come next, and Sokka seems to sense this, pulling away and staring deep into Zuko’s eyes.

“I need to make sure you want this before we go on, okay?” Sokka reaches out and traces a finger over Zuko’s scar. “We can stop right now if you want to. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

“I’m fine.” Zuko’s voice is shaky, his hand trembling as he presses it over Sokka’s hand, clutching his cheek like his life depends on it. “I want this.”

Sokka kisses him on the cheek, setting Zuko’s face aflame into a field of fire lilies in full bloom.

“ _You have no idea_.” And _fucking fuck_ , Sokka’s whispering in his ear again, breath tickling his skin with the slightest hint of a tease. “What else did you want me to do?”

Zuko gasps.

“I can’t hear you.”

Zuko whines, breath hitching in his throat when Sokka runs a hand over his chest, pinching his shirt and teasing the nipple underneath. The sudden bit of friction catches Zuko off guard and he nearly falls forward, Sokka reaching out at the last moment to wrap an arm around him.

“Careful now. Can’t have you falling on me like that when we haven’t even started.”

 _Oh, fuck_.

Sokka’s grinning now, a charming smile bright on his face as he reaches out and sweeps a hand over the desk, sending a typhoon of papers and pens everywhere. Zuko’s briefcase—the one with his notes on the Kyoshi Project and his Omashu Enterprises slidedeck—thuds unceremoniously on the floor, not that he’s paying any attention to that at the moment. Zuko finds himself bending forward, his knees quivering, chest heaving underneath his suit.

“Should we be doing this here?” he asks, hoping that his voice isn’t as wobbly as it sounds. The tension in the room is thick and heady like molasses, and Zuko wants nothing more than to yank his suit off and let Sokka have his way with him, right then and there.

“Oh, Mister Huo,” Sokka purrs as he reaches out, fingers deftly loosening the tie dangling around Zuko’s neck. “I would do you _anywhere_.”

The necktie falls to the floor, a ribbon of claret red pooling at Zuko’s feet. He wants to reach down, to pick it up and place it somewhere else—it was a gift from Azula, for Agni’s sake—but his legs have gone to jelly, and it takes all of his strength to stay upright.

“Of course, a bed would’ve been preferable.” Sokka’s unbuttoning Zuko’s shirt now, fingertips grazing his skin as he works nimbly, smoothing out tiny wrinkles all the while. “But I suppose this will do, won’t it?”

He punctuates the last question with a hard kiss against Zuko’s throat—no, _not the teeth_ —and Zuko just about loses it completely.

“Shh.” Sokka’s pressing a finger against Zuko’s lips now, the tiniest hint of a callus rough against Zuko’s skin. “You don’t want them to hear, do you?”

He motions towards the closed door, all tall and imposing—and best of all, _closed_. Zuko feels something twisting inside of him, a terrible sense of excitement that has him shaking with anticipation.

Zuko can’t resist, and the tiniest bit of tongue escapes from behind his clenched teeth as he licks Sokka’s finger daintily.

“Hm?” Sokka flips him around in one swift twist until he’s perched precariously on the desk, and Zuko barely has time to react when he feels Sokka’s lips against his, warm and smooth and—

 _Oh_.

Zuko whines as Sokka nibbles his bottom lip, slow, soft bites that have his blood rushing to his face. He can see the smallest hint of a reflection in the window behind Sokka, and the sight of his lips—all kiss-bitten and cherry-swollen—sends another prickle down Zuko’s spine.

_What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

“It seems like you’ve gotten yourself into quite the situation.” Sokka pulls away, teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun, a sudden light in his eyes. “I seem to remember you talking about me being a—how did you put it—a pain in the ass?”

Zuko stares determinedly at the ground.

“And how nice it would be if _I_ was your pain in the ass?”

Zuko swallows down a stinging retort and squirms, embarrassment flush on his face.

“All you have to do is to ask nicely.” Sokka clicks his tongue as he reaches out and palms Zuko in his hand.

“ _Hnngh_.” Oh, he’s definitely close to whining now.

“Ask nicely.”

Zuko’s squirming into Sokka’s touch, and he feels something surging in his chest.

“—ck me.”

“I can’t hear you.”

Sokka’s fingers move _that_ much faster, and if Zuko had half his wits with him, the two of them would already be in the corner, Zuko twisting himself into impossible positions as Sokka—

 _Fuck_.

One last stroke has Zuko gasping, fire lily-red blooming across his face.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he whispers quietly.

“Anything for you, Mister Huo. Turn around.”

Zuko’s facing the desk again, elbows bracing against the sleek tabletop as Sokka nudges his legs apart, inch by inch, his fingers coming around and pulling down the zipper as slowly as possible. It feels like hours have passed until Zuko feels his trousers plummeting to the floor— _shit, the Armani ones, Azula’s going to kill me_ —and a cool breeze on the back of his legs, goosebumps dotting his thighs and under his—

_Fuck._

(Zuko’s come to the unfortunate realization that Sokka’s getting an eyeful of his garters now, the ones he wears to every business meeting because _it’s important to make a good impression and sagging socks just aren’t it, okay?_. Besides, Zuko likes the way they feel, fastened right below his knees.)

Sokka lets out a low whistle. “Never pegged you for a garters man.”

“You can take them off, you know.”

“I think I’ll do that next time,” Sokka rumbles. “When we can do this all fine and proper, yeah?”

 _(There’s going to be a next time?_ )

Zuko whimpers.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I heard you the first time?” Sokka whispers in Zuko’s ear, and Zuko’s heart flutters.

“What?”

“Honestly? I thought you were a jackass.” Sokka chuckles softly. “All high-and-mighty, _that’s-Mister-Huo-but-call-me-Zuko_ , that kind of shit. Not to mention your sister, always glaring at me like I did something to her.”

“I mean, you did do something.” Zuko shivers when he feels Sokka run a finger over his back, tracing his shoulder blade— _oh!_

( _Oh, do that again_.)

“What did I do?”

Zuko wiggles around. “You caught my interest.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Sokka snorts quietly, fingertips moving down, down, down until they’re resting right on top of Zuko’s boxer-briefs. “May I?”

(Logic says no. But desire—desire says yes.)

“Yes,” Zuko breathes like it’s his last breath. “ _Yes_.”

He shudders as his underwear falls and catches at his knees, almost crying when Sokka slides a finger into the cleft, prodding around until he finds what he’s searching for and pushes in. A warm wetness settles in— _just how prepared_ was _he?_ —as Sokka continues, one finger becoming two, then three, until he’s gripping Zuko’s hip in one hand and mercilessly torturing him with the other.

“Easy now,” Sokka murmurs from the small of Zuko’s back. “I got you.”

“You’re going to pay for that, you know,” Zuko says with all the grace of the businessman that he is, as if Sokka’s fingers aren’t buried deep inside him, rocking, caressing, bringing Zuko closer and closer to becoming a blubbering mess.

“Two inches.” Sokka hisses in Zuko’s ear, sinful and teasing. “Two inches between us and the world outside.”

“Please.” Zuko resists the urge to roll his eyes, heart still pounding erratically from his high a few minutes ago.

 _Two can play at this game_. “As long as you put your two inches to good use.”

“Trust me, sweetheart—“ and there’s the sound of rustling fabric, “— _I’m not two inches_.”

Sokka thrusts in, and Zuko sees the cosmos erupt behind his eyelids.

He tries to hold it in—he really does—but Sokka has terribly splendid aim, pounding again and again at that one spot inside Zuko that he hasn’t felt in ages, and something hot laps against Zuko’s toes, slowly crawling up his legs until he’s positively quivering under Sokka’s ministrations.

“You know, I’ve had my eyes on you from the start,” Sokka whispers in Zuko’s ear, pausing to tuck a stray lock of sable behind Zuko’s ear. “Ever since I saw you sitting there in that conference room in that damn suit of yours, looking like you were about to rip me a new one for coming in late.”

Zuko claps a hand against his own mouth to keep from crying out.

“And then hearing you and your partner gossiping about me in Mandarin—” Sokka nips at Zuko’s ear, “—only to realize that you’ve been having the same thoughts about me.”

“ _Hngh_.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Sokka muses. “You know all that yoga? When I told you my therapist suggested it to me as a way to calm down?”

Zuko nods.

“ _I was doing it because of you, bǎobèi_.”

Sokka speeds up, just enough for Zuko to reach the edge—and Zuko crashes.

His muscles tighten up, shoulders shuddering as every piece of his body falls apart. Static roars in his ears as pleasure overwhelms everything. Sokka’s patient, coaxing wave after wave of ecstasy from Zuko, wiping the tears from Zuko’s eyes as he cries out with a silent scream.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” Sokka’s voice is ragged as he lifts Zuko up from the desk and cradles him in his arms, the two of them coming back down.

“That jacket cost three thousand dollars,” Zuko groans.

“And Shu Jing’s worth over a billion dollars.” Sokka runs a hand through his hair, a grin on his face. “But you, Zuko Huo? You’re priceless.”

The last thing Zuko remembers before blissfully falling asleep is how he’s going to explain to Azula how this all happened—but that’s a problem for later.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to kudo/comment! i hope you enjoyed it : )


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